


Hold It and Keep It Alive

by Silver_Queen



Category: Pundit RPF, Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Angst, Community: fakenews_fanfic, Foreign Correspondents, M/M, Romance, Stolen Moments, journalists in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-10
Updated: 2011-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen/pseuds/Silver_Queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ayman thinks there was a moment when he could have kissed Richard Engel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold It and Keep It Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "one that got away" OT prompt at fakenews_fanfic on LJ.
> 
> Title from "Love Will Come Through" by Travis, which influenced this fic a bit.

There was a moment, Ayman thinks, a fleeting few seconds when he could have kissed Richard Engel.

But something stopped him. Maybe it was the presence of other people nearby. Maybe it was the anxious knowledge that they could be caught at any moment. Or maybe it was just an old-fashioned fear of rejection.

Whatever it was, Ayman regrets it.

-

It started when a call came from the scout Al Jazeera English had placed in the lobby of the hotel where they were staying.

"Mubarak's thugs are here and the staff is directing them to the roof. You've got about two minutes. Grab your equipment and get out of there now."

30 seconds later, in the midst of scrambling to pack up the most expensive cameras, a voice piped up: "Got a message from the NBC boys. They can safely hide two of us in their room. The rest will have to risk taking the stairwell down."

The decision was too obvious to be spoken aloud. Ayman was the on-air reporter. He had to go.

He hung back for a moment anyway, too frustrated to move, until a member of the camera crew grabbed his hand and physically tugged him off the roof.

The NBC guys wasted no time tucking their fugitives away. The cameraman was bundled into a closet behind a stack of suitcases, while Ayman was shoved onto the balcony and told to lie down by none other than Richard Engel.

"Wait, what?"

"They're patrolling on the ground. If they see you standing on the balcony we're all toast. Lie down!"

Ayman complied, lowering himself onto his back, the hot concrete warm through his layers of clothes. He shielded his eyes from the sun overhead.

"How exactly is this going to prevent them from finding me?"

"We've drawn the curtains so they can't see who's out here. When they come to the door, we'll pretend to be in the middle of a broadcast from the balcony. They won't come near for fear of being caught by the live camera."

Ayman thought this over. "That might actually work."

Richard flashed a confident grin. "It will."

And it did. When the knock on the door came, Richard jumped in front of the camera and started spouting perfectly convincing nonsense about "the conditions on the ground" and "monitoring the situation," complete with periodic pauses for questions that didn't exist.

When Mubarak's henchmen entered the room, Richard didn't waver, but just kept talking as if his broadcast were more important than the interruption.

Watching this performance with a mix of admiration and disbelief, Ayman almost forgot to be scared.

Ayman heard the men in the room speaking in low voices. He could hear them poking around, making demands, but they didn't seem inclined to be too thorough, and they left quickly.

When the coast was clear, Richard winked at Ayman. "Told you it'd work," he said jauntily in perfect Egyptian Arabic.

It was only then that Ayman realized Richard hadn't spoken a word of English to him the entire time.

"Thanks, man. I definitely owe you one," Ayman sighed, making a point to use English, but Richard's reply came in Arabic: "Don't worry about it. You'd have done the same for me. Anyway, you need to stay there until they leave the building."

Before Ayman could respond, Richard disappeared into the hotel room, returning a moment later with a chair. He placed it next to Ayman, sat down, and said, "Let me keep you company."

In the three hours it took for state security to finish searching the building, they managed to discuss the future of Arab politics, the state of modern journalism, sports, and the best restaurants in Jerusalem, as well as finishing several card games.

Before Ayman left, Richard handed him a card with his cell number scrawled in blocky numerals.

"In case you need me again," he offered, smile welcoming and open.

-

In the ensuing days, Ayman had to call that number twice, both times while making a hasty retreat from Tahrir with government thugs on his heels.

Richard would install him on the balcony, hastily concoct a cover story to keep any intruders from getting too nosey, and pull up a chair. Both times Ayman stayed far later than was strictly necessary, swapping war stories and police-evasion techniques.

The second time Ayman finally asked, "Why do you insist on speaking Arabic to me? You know I'm American, right?"

Richard had joined him on the balcony floor, both lying on their stomachs face-to-face, chins resting on crossed arms.

Richard's expression was youthfully mischievous. "I know. I just prefer Arabic," he said, switching to a Beirut-accented Levantine dialect.

"Why?" Ayman asked, mystified.

"Because," Richard grinned, transitioning back to colloquial Egyptian, "it's more fun."

And Ayman had wanted to kiss him then, this fascinating man who, in the midst of harboring a fugitive from a police state, could still savor the simple joy of language, switching between dialects like strings on a harp, life and wanderlust in his eyes.

-

But then Ayman was arrested, and after that, no Tahrir. Only secure rooftops at a safe distance.

Then Libya happened and Richard went. Ayman found out through Twitter.

He thought at first they'd meet up again in Benghazi among victory songs and anti-aircraft weaponry, but orders came from on high to stay in Cairo, and someone else was sent to represent Al Jazeera instead.

Ayman still has that card with Richard's number on it. The number's in his phone, but he stares at the card anyway, flipping it over in his fingers to contemplate those numbers, that intangible digital link that could be established as quickly as Ayman can dial.

He won't. The man's in the middle of a war zone. Ayman can't exactly call him up to check in for old times' sake.

Maybe later, he thinks. Maybe when this is all over, he'll come up with a good reason to call besides "Save me."

(But he won't.)

Failing that, there's always the next assignment. The next draw, the next country, the next story to tell.

Probably they won't match up. Probably they'll sail around the world, periodically touching down in cities recently vacated by the other. But he'll always be around, running circles parallel to Ayman's.

And maybe someday they'll synchronize again, and maybe this time Richard will need saving, and maybe this time Ayman will take all the risks.

Or maybe Ayman will keep sailing in parallel, accompanied by a vivid memory of adrenaline-laced laughter, close quarters, and a connection that had nothing to do with a common dialect but everything to do with a common language.

 _But that,_ thinks Ayman, _that's okay, too._


End file.
